


Pinker

by irog



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (so are their other best friends really), Fluff, Iwaizumi is a supportive best friend, Iwaizumi's Mother cameo, M/M, Making Out, Shayne Prompt, implied exploration of gender expression, lip tint as a plot device, mention of Hanamaki Takahiro - Freeform, mention of Matsukawa Issei - Freeform, screams, there's so much making out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27856769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irog/pseuds/irog
Summary: Oikawa uses lip tint. Iwaizumi is supportive. (There are right, and then also some self-indulgent, reasons.)
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 41
Kudos: 391





	Pinker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enisle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enisle/gifts).



> Shout out to Shayne (twitter user [@lqiwaoi](https://twitter.com/lqiwaoi)), who is actually the mastermind for the prompt, with a thread she so eloquently wrote [here](https://twitter.com/lqiwaoi/status/1329828071730413568). Check out her other threads, they're a minefield of inspiration.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this one! I can't believe it got so long.

“Iwaizumi.”

The man in question snaps his head toward the sound—a conspiratorial whisper, reserved for certain moments; which often spell, for Oikawa, life and death.

Recently, it has started spelling something else.

“Mam-mam,” Iwaizumi prompts, tilting his chin up and exaggerating the way his lips are pressing together repeatedly. The wordless motion holds new meaning between him and his best friend: _Show me, has it dried? Do you need to even it out a little?_

_There—that’s good._

See, sometime about a week and a half ago, Oikawa Tooru had started wearing lip tint.

Iwaizumi didn’t even have a choice—getting dragged as he did all the way to the mall, and being subjected to choose from an array of too-similar hues that, honestly, _all_ looked good on Oikawa. It was pure luck that one of them had stood out.

It was terrible luck for Iwaizumi.

Oikawa repeats the gesture— _mam, mam_ —and looks at him expectantly. Iwaizumi takes a quiet moment in his head to lament how he had authored his own demise.

He nods, and Oikawa whispers, “Thanks.”

Oikawa’s not yet fully comfortable doing the whole lip tint thing in the men’s room, even if virtually or physically, no one would dare mess with him. Iwaizumi didn’t even need to be there, except to provide the threat of bodily harm.

But there are some things that take a while for anybody to express, so for now, they do this every morning, by their lockers.

“Why don’t you just do it at home?” Iwaizumi once asked. His parents knew, and so did his sister. He wondered if it had something to do with Takeru.

Naturally for Oikawa though, his reasons weren’t for abiding with some little ideologies he didn’t like. It was a simple, “Because they gave nee-chan so much shit when _she_ started using make-up... And they’ll tell me the same thing—that I don’t need it.

“And maybe I don’t,” Oikawa had added, “but it makes me feel pretty.”

“You’re all about that,” Iwaizumi had chuckled. He didn’t only mean it one way.

“I really am,” Oikawa confirmed.

No one had noticed so far, that Oikawa was using lip tint. Iwaizumi couldn’t even inwardly agree with what should have been the girls _and_ the guys fawning over how full and defined Oikawa’s lips had started looking recently. Left alone with only some Nivea lip balm, he was already unstoppable. With a tint that complimented his skin and brought out their plump shape? He was dangerous.

Not to mention, Oikawa smiles even more with it. Leave it to him to figure out he looks the best when he’s happy, and the delicate curve of his mouth when he is, coupled with the warm brown sparkle of his eyes is a combination that’s bound to trip you off the stairs and make you fall face-first onto the landing.

(He’s not talking from experience. It’s not an experience if it only _almost_ happened.)

It brings out roses on his cheeks, that bloom and creep along his neck, and maybe it kind of brings the soft pink of his lip tint to shame.

Iwaizumi won’t say it though. Because that’s weird, and he’s already done one weird thing, putting his thumb on Oikawa’s bottom lip on that day he’d accompanied him in buying it.

“Why are you always licking it?” he ends up asking one noon, when he and Oikawa are leaning on railings on the roof, where they spend many a sunny lunch in Seijoh.

Oikawa raises a brow. “Been watching me, haven’t you, Iwa-chan?”

“I’m just concerned.” A half-truth. “Why put it on and then lick it, and then risk rubbing it off?”

The face Oikawa pulls tells him he is awfully endeared, but also finds him a little stupid at the same time.

“Iwa-chan,” he says, chuckling, “You weren’t paying attention when we went shopping. This thing—” he turns to Iwaizumi and licks his lips, as if the demonstration is necessary, “—is cherry-flavored.”

Iwaizumi’s mind has gone blank. He regains it a few seconds later, blinking.

“For real?”

“Mm-hm,” Oikawa hums. And then, he makes that same face as when he gets a bright (childish) idea, and pulls the little tube of tint from his back pocket.

“You bring that everywhere, don’t y...”

“Ah,” Oikawa prompts, tilting Iwaizumi’s chin up with his ring finger. The rest of his hand ghosts over Iwaizumi’s cheek, and of this his best friend is acutely aware.

It’s obvious what Oikawa is asking him to do. He’s so focused that Iwaizumi can’t bring himself to ruin it. He opens his mouth.

The doe foot applicator glides smoothly across his lip.

It’s light; lighter than he anticipated it’d be, and Oikawa doesn’t fill in his top lip—doesn’t even put any on his bottom lip—so he’s confused for a moment before he refocuses his eyes, and Oikawa is looking at him excitedly.

“Taste,” he says, eager. Iwaizumi almost does something else.

But he’s got self-control and a thin line of lip tint on him, which he needs to get rid of, and so he licks.

It really is cherry flavor.

“Oh.”

“So surprised, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa teases, arms crossed now and lip tint bottle long kept. He looks pleased. He looks beautiful. “How was it?”

“Cherry,” Iwaizumi answers dumbly, and Oikawa really has to laugh.

He’s laughing again, on their walk home, and it’s a wonder to Iwaizumi how he’s doing that and managing to lick his lips a lot at the same time.

“Shittykawa,” he grits, because isn’t that expensive? “Stop licking.”

“What?” He actually looks surprised, like he hadn’t known he was doing it.

“You’re gonna rub—the lip tint—what’s the use of it, if you’re gonna lick it all away anyway?”

Oikawa brightens, laughing. “Iwa-chan, we’re on the way home! And it’s yummy.”

Right. Oikawa didn’t wear the lip tint at his house. He’s worried a little, suddenly.

“Let me see,” he turns his face to Oikawa, which prompts him to do the same. “There’s a lot still left. You wanna crash at my place first, and let’s take it off there? Before you head home, so they won’t see. It’s so obvious.”

And it’s true. Oikawa had reapplied the lip tint quite a few times throughout the day. Mattsun picked up on it—a little later than Iwaizumi thought he would, if he’s being honest—and proceeded to talk with Oikawa about the latest lip tint brands, and his little sister getting into them lately, and so on.

Makki had realized shortly after, because where Mattsun went he followed, and his eyes had just sparkled in understanding, and elation. _Self-expression!_

But no one else had pointed it out, possibly because it looked so good and right on Oikawa; there was no way that that was lip tint. That, and Iwaizumi, Mattsun, and Makki, were the most familiar with his face at a close distance anyway.

Well, and his family.

“Okay,” Oikawa’s expression softens, and he smiles. And then he licks his lips again, humming a pleased sound. “Gotta be quick though,” he says, narrowing his eyes at nothing. _Still_ licking.

Iwaizumi shakes his head; rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I know.”

 _“I don’t know,”_ Oikawa is asserting much later, while they’re in Iwaizumi’s bathroom and having a crisis.

“What do you mean, _you don’t know?”_ asks Iwaizumi, incredulous.

“It always came off fast enough before! I don’t know what’s different.”

Iwaizumi sighs. “It’s because you kept putting some on all day. It’s the layers. Here.” He holds out a wet tissue.

“Bleugh—Iwa-chan, just water and tissue is enough. I don’t wanna lick my lips later and taste a wipe.”

“Water and tissue is _literally not enough_ —hasn’t been, for the past, what, nine minutes.”

“Obviously,” Oikawa grumbles.

“Shittykawa.”

“What.”

“Give it a rest,” Iwaizumi presses. “Your lips are going to get swollen.” And they’re going to become a color much deeper, and he’s going to have to get something from downstairs to stop the swelling. Or he’s going to forego that entirely, and just make things for Oikawa worse.

His best friend sighs. “Fine.”

Adorable.

“You know,” Iwaizumi offers, when they’re lumbering back to his room, “You could put some on me, and we can pretend the girls at school got the both of us.”

“That’s counterproductive.” Iwaizumi just shrugs.

“Put some on me anyway. The cherry is nice.”

“Really?” Oikawa sparkles, honey in his eyes.

Iwaizumi nods, and immediately, Oikawa bounds over to his bed. “Sit!”

“I’m not a dog, Oikawa.”

“Come on. I wanna see how it looks on you.”

Giving Oikawa an exaggerated eye-roll—which only gets him a tinkling-bell laugh in response—Iwaizumi settles himself onto the bed for a single second before he’s standing up again, shedding his school jacket.

“Hey!” the boy on his bed protests, but it’s only natural to get changed into something more comfortable, since he’s already home. He pulls his pants down and doesn’t see Oikawa look away.

Nestling himself back onto the bed when he’s dressed in shorts and a sleeveless tee with the kanji for “king”, Iwaizumi has to brace himself for a huffing, fussy Oikawa.

“Tsk,” Oikawa says, feigning annoyance, before he uncrosses his arms and scoots closer to Iwaizumi, guiding his chin to tilt it up.

“Your lips are chapped,” he teases.

Iwaizumi knows they aren’t. “Shut up.”

He tries to scowl, but this close, all his mouth does is flutter into a smile.

“Ah,” Oikawa prompts, like he’d done that afternoon. Iwaizumi gets flashbacks of the sun on Oikawa’s skin; of its light on his lashes, on his lips—on the _roof,_ making everything a sweltering sort of hot.

The sun is gone now. The heat is the same.

The doe foot applicator glides smoothly across his lip.

It’s light—he already knows it is—and Oikawa’s hands are careful; meticulous in his ministrations. He could be a make-up artist, Iwaizumi muses, with how light his touch can be.

Funny, when his hands can set and serve like _that._

“Mam-mam,” Oikawa’s prompting eases him out of his daydream. There’s a thumb gently poking his cheek, rubbing it slightly.

He hadn’t even noticed when he’d closed his eyes.

When he opens them, Oikawa is so close.

“Mam-mam,” Oikawa says again, smiling now that he’s got Iwaizumi’s attention. “Mm-mm,” he does next, pressing his lips together, trying to get Iwaizumi to do the same.

But Iwaizumi just stares, mouth agape, lip tint drying crusted.

Oikawa tuts. He’ll be having none of that.

Iwaizumi’s mind blanks a second time when a finger swipes against his bottom lip.

_Oikawa—_

“You have to even it out,” Oikawa’s voice sounds distant. He’s smoothing the tint over Iwaizumi’s plump lips, trying and failing not to be distracted by the way they nearly bounce when he presses and swipes, and watches them take on another pretty color.

The lip tint bottle is already closed and somewhere in the crumple of the bedsheets; and Oikawa is cradling his best friend’s face with both his hands, because he’s gone slack, for whatever reason he doesn’t understand.

“All done,” he announces, other thumb rubbing at Iwaizumi’s cheek. Iwaizumi shuts his mouth, finally, and swallows.

“Oikawa—”

“You look good,” he’s cut off, and Oikawa is smiling. He licks his lips again, like it’s second nature already, and it does things to Iwaizumi’s brain when Oikawa announces, “Wait a little for me to see more of you in it before you taste.”

“No,” Iwaizumi finds himself saying. He makes a show of sticking his tongue out and running it all over his lips, tasting cherry and revelling in the widening of Oikawa’s eyes.

His best friend colors red, embarrassed.

“Iwa-chan!”

Iwaizumi hums, grinning, but doesn’t look elsewhere. Oikawa has always been friends with Iwaizumi’s bedroom light. Every moment he’s been here was a moment he’d been beautiful. But then, he always is. What a freak.

“Is it gone?” Iwaizumi asks, testy. There’s an undercurrent of _Maybe if mine got wiped off quick, then yours has a chance._ They’d find a way to get Oikawa’s lips back to their natural shade, and he’d get home before dinner and not have to face the terror of his family, who are much worse when they’re curious than when they’re mad.

“Not all of it,” Oikawa admits, voice having dropped into a low whisper. His unfocused eyes have fallen onto Iwaizumi’s cupid’s bow, and rove over to his lower lip he knows to be a little pillowy. “But it’s not as bad as mine.”

“Yeah, yours is bad,” Iwaizumi chuckles, and oh, what the fuck is that, why’s his thumb there now? He was only watching Oikawa’s mouth a little while ago.

“Iwa-chan?” It’s not a hallucination. He really _has_ lifted his hand, _again,_ and has hovered it over Oikawa’s bottom lip.

He decides to be bold. “This color really does suit you.” Oikawa’s skin goes cold under his touch. Iwaizumi goes warm.

“Yeah,” is Oikawa’s mumble. “That’s why I bought it.”

Iwaizumi lips turn up at one corner. “Because I suggested it.”

“Because I trust you.”

He snaps his eyes up, but Oikawa isn’t looking at him. Iwaizumi licks his lips to test a theory, and when Oikawa gulps, he knows where he’s been looking.

Mahogany eyes move up to meet his; still hooded, shining, close. Oikawa never moved back after giving his best friend lip tint.

“Iwaizumi.”

Oh. So, they both know.

“‘Kawa,” Iwaizumi mutters lowly, and Oikawa’s lips part in surprise. Faint pink dusts his cheeks, and Iwaizumi can’t help but move his thumb over to Oikawa’s chin. “Does this—” he teases his thumb on the edge of Oikawa’s lower lip, “—still taste like cherry?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I...?”

“Can you what, Iwa-chan?”

“Taste it.”

Oikawa shudders with his next breath. Iwaizumi is watching him with a feathery gaze. He leans in, just a little, with his eyes closed, and answers with a shaky exhale.

Needing no further confirmation, Iwaizumi leans in too, and Oikawa first registers the hands at his jaw, and the thumb that grazes lazily over his cheek.

Iwaizumi has placed his forehead on his: eyes closed, almost content with their closeness. Oikawa smells cherries.

“You’re sure?” Iwaizumi asks, eyes opening just a little. Oikawa keeps his closed, but answers with a slow peck to Iwaizumi’s lips.

When he pulls away, he whispers, “Kiss me, fucker.”

Iwaizumi says, “Yeah,” and places his lips to Oikawa’s the same time he eases them open with his thumb.

_“Mmn.”_

“Oh my god.”

When Iwaizumi pulls away by the barest of breaths, Oikawa opens his eyes to look at him, and finds him watching back. In the next moment, his best friend’s eyes are closing again, and Oikawa feels something wet and warm prodding at his lips.

He doesn’t resist Iwaizumi’s tongue when it traces his mouth, slowly.

“Iwa-chan...” he says breathlessly, just because he has to. Iwaizumi’s right hand has moved away from his hair, settled now on his waist, massaging in slow patterns. Oikawa’s stomach jumps; his heart flips.

Iwaizumi thumbs at his side, and he whimpers.

“Hot,” he mutters against Oikawa’s lips, his own quirking.

“Mmn,” Oikawa moans, and it makes a heat pool in Iwaizumi’s stomach that he tries his best to ignore.

_I’m kissing Oikawa. / Iwa-chan is kissing me._

Iwaizumi drops his other hand from his best friend’s cheek to his shoulder, and pulls him in.

_“Mm—!”_

Oikawa takes Iwaizumi’s folded-up leg and extends it on the bed on the other side of his body, switching their position from awkward to _too much_ in a span of seconds.

Another hum, bordering on a moan when Iwaizumi slows his lips and cups Oikawa’s face again, other hand still thumbing at the skin he’s exposed at Oikawa’s waist.

Oikawa gasps at the sensation. Iwaizumi takes it as a green light.

 _“Iwa-chan,”_ Oikawa rasps. _“Hajime.”_

 _He tastes so good,_ Iwaizumi thinks, hyperaware of the way he and Oikawa are lapping each other up. One moment they’re slow, sensual, and the next they’re hungry and wanting and it’s surreal, and it’s supposed to be scary—it would be, but they’re not thinking of that now.

Now, there is only the sound of Oikawa panting when he pulls away and smiles against his best friend’s lips. “You’re enjoying this.”

“You too,” Iwaizumi grunts, hands tracing gently on Oikawa’s waist.

“That _tickl—_ ”

“Hajime!” a voice calls, and it sounds like it’s coming up the stairs, “Dinnertime!”

They jump apart—too soon—and a quick catalogue of each other’s physical state (it’s not _ogling,_ they both inwardly protest) informs them that they’re going to deal with a boatload of questions if they don’t fix up in five seconds.

It’s directly outside the door now. “Hajime?”

“Just a sec, ma,” Iwaizumi calls, fidgeting for a moment before apparently reaching a personal decision. “Can I... do homework first? There’s a lot and I’ve just gotten into the... groove of it.”

A contemplative silence.

A resigned chuckle, inaudible to the two boys from the other side of the door.

“Is Tooru-kun in there?”

Iwaizumi turns to Oikawa with wide eyes, who mouths to him, _No point in lying,_ with a worried, almost alarmed shrug. _What are you waiting for? Go!!_

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi says to the piece of wood that is, for now, his mother. “Can we eat later?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she calls, already sounding a little distant. Her tone is the same one she uses when they both know Hajime’s won—some petty argument, or other—that indicates she really can’t refuse her only baby.

Especially not when it comes to his best friend. (Maybe, she muses, a little more than that. _Partner,_ Hajime had called him once, absently, in the kitchen.

Oh well, dinner is waiting.)

Said best friend is sitting frazzled on Iwaizumi’s bed, lips swollen and red from one of three possible things.

“I—”

“No,” Iwaizumi says, before he rises from his perch and glides toward his bedroom door. A speedy inspection assures him they don’t have company, and he sighs and begins to turn around when his back bumps into something warm.

“Sorry—!”

“What are you doing, Trashkawa?”

Oikawa squeaks. “Checking with you!”

“Well, you don’t need to,” Iwaizumi scrunches his nose. “She’s gone.”

“Downstairs?”

“Where else, dumbass?”

Oikawa bites his lip. “Okay,” he whispers.

He’s biting his lip, Iwaizumi notes. His pink—red—swollen lip.

 _I did that?_ he tries to stamp down the feeling again, pooling in his stomach only to explode right from the middle, sending it spattering all over his insides. Heavy fluttering. Really heavy fluttering.

“What,” he gulps, refocusing. “Why aren’t you going back?” _To the bed,_ he motions with his eyes, sure Oikawa will understand it.

If he does, he shows no indication of following, instead fixing Iwaizumi with a rare look, like he wants to be read. But in no way is it pleading.

Gently, he takes a step forward, and another, and pushes Iwaizumi onto the wall.

“Oika—”

 _“Sh,”_ he says abruptly, and so quickly that it tapers off into air. His gaze is lowered now, resting somewhere on his best friend’s shoulder, and he steels a breath. “A while ago...”

Oikawa’s voice is unsurprisingly steady. Unsurprisingly, because Iwaizumi’s sure he’s done this with tons of people before. _Okay. Maybe not tons..._

“Iwa-chan, I’m not gonna ask you to kiss me again,” he announces, resolved. Iwaizumi feels himself back further into the wall in full defense, and Oikawa takes that moment to trap him inside both his arms: one hand right beside his face, and the other flat against the wall by his hip.

Iwaizumi is confused; wants to shrink into himself.

“I think,” Oikawa starts, voice soft, “I’m being very bad at communication right now.”

Finding his voice, Iwaizumi shoots back, “Way to be self-aware, Asskawa.” He chokes on some of the words.

“Hajime.” There’s a fond lilt to Oikawa’s voice, like he’s reminiscing. Iwaizumi feels his best friend’s breath on his clavicle, right where Oikawa has tucked his face in the junction between his shoulder and neck. “I won’t ask you to kiss me because you never say no to me.”

“You’re a stupid piece of shit,” Iwaizumi grits, “if you don’t think I wasn’t wanting all _week_ to do that.”

And then he takes Oikawa by the cheek and swoops down; captures Oikawa’s mouth and kisses him.

“Iwa-ch—” Oikawa pants, barely gathering his breath before he’s being kissed again. He’s not going to complain about that except the fact that Iwaizumi had managed to maneuver him into the wall.

(He’d smirked, so suggestively, before grabbing Oikawa’s butt and enunciating, _Asskawa,_ with a firm, arousing squeeze.)

_“Mmn, Tooru.”_

The husk in Iwaizumi’s voice is disarming, and soon so is his smile in between their sensual motions, when he feels Oikawa’s erection on his thigh. He grinds his thigh up against it; basks in the sound Oikawa makes.

“Iwa- _chan,”_ he moans, hips jerking. “ _Hah_ —stop that!”

“You say that,” Iwaizumi pants, “But you’re the one pressing on my leg, now.”

Oikawa’s chest is rising and falling like it does during a game. The way it does when he’s doing anything he doesn’t want to be _done with_ just yet.

“Tell me,” he demands, the least demanding but the most compelling he’s ever sounded in his life. Iwaizumi tries to reason that it’s not his own erection that’s thinking for him.

“Tell you?” he huffs harshly. This has never deterred Oikawa. And it won’t, because Iwaizumi doesn’t mean it, and he’s in his least convincing state, disheveled as all hell because of _Oikawa,_ who he’s been making out with.

Making those obscene sounds with.

 _“Said—”_ Oikawa is still catching his breath, “—all week. _You’ve been wanting to kiss me.”_

Iwaizumi thinks Oikawa’s going to make him tell him _why_ (that would be reasonable of him), before his best friend goes completely off-script than what he’s got going in his mind, and slowly—achingly slowly—presses Iwaizumi flush against him.

The bulges in their pants shiver helplessly at the contact—too much and all at once too little. As does Iwaizumi, when Oikawa rocks his hips and mutters lowly, _“How much?”_

_Just how much did you want to kiss me?_

“Ah, but you know,” Oikawa says, so sensually and so overwhelmingly because he’s _still moving,_ “I’ve been wanting to kiss you too, Iwa-chan.”

Iwaizumi halts Oikawa with both hands to his hips, bracing him against the pale blue paint of his bedroom.

Whatever Oikawa has to say in protest dies in his throat, and reincarnates as a breathy moan when Iwaizumi drags his erection right over Oikawa’s in drawn-out _up and down_ motions, and then a circle, all over his bulge; accompaniment only Iwaizumi’s low, guttural moans.

(And Oikawa’s _Ahhh, ah—!)_

He punctuates it with a sharp thrust, which sends Oikawa’s hands flying over his mouth to cut off practically _nothing,_ because all that comes out is a cry before he breaks out into soft whimpers at the overwhelming sensations.

 _“Iwa-chan!”_ is his helpless gasp.

 _More,_ he thinks. He wants more.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa murmurs, and Iwaizumi, panting from what he just did, hums in acknowledgement.

“Yeah?” he says, allowing it to come out soft. His hard-on is painful, more painful than it’s ever been, and he has half a mind to just go to Oikawa’s bathroom and jack off because he badly needs it, but Oikawa is here too, caught up with him in this situation, and he meets his best friend’s eyes that have always been the same clear, starry hue. If stars were brown. “What is it?” He searches Oikawa for any signs of discomfort.

(And finds them, but it’s the same thing he’s experiencing; the kind that needs attention _now_.)

He reels it in. “You—okay?”

“More,” Oikawa confirms indirectly. And oh boy, is it _not_ helping the situation. “Iwa-chan... I want more.”

“Spoiled brat,” Iwaizumi accuses, haloing it with a smile despite himself.

“Hmp,” Oikawa mopes, draping himself over his best friend in a boneless hug; mumbling into his neck, again, “Iwa-chan.”

“Alright—let me just—”

_“No.”_

Oikawa’s voice is sudden, like he’d realized something, and Iwaizumi feels him shift.

“Huh?”

“No,” he says again, smiling gently at Iwaizumi this time, and the man blinks, confused. Oikawa answers it with his lips, pressing lovingly against his best friend’s while he snakes his arms around the back of Iwaizumi’s neck, and he’s got him steady there, and kissing him in a way that’s finally proper.

When he pulls back, it’s with shiny eyes and an almost understanding smirk.

“I can feel you too, you know,” he says, and Iwaizumi reddens when he connects the dots that are hiding in that statement.

Clear as day, really.

“Come on,” Oikawa coaxes, pushing off the wall to saunter towards the bed. “Let’s get you off.”

“You’re awfully…”

Iwaizumi sinks his knee into the bed—resuming what had been his and Oikawa’s previous position—with a pensive scowl on his face. Oikawa is inching closer, likely not hoping to startle him, but it doesn’t really work, not when Oikawa has always been so easy to see:

Tall (but not telephone pole tall), and the dumbest sort of pretty. (It has everyone falling, the moment they realize that Oikawa isn’t _dumb._ ) The constellation-like lines of his face that work to align into perfect expressions. His cheeks that are, because he is always sort of windswept, pink, and;

His lips. In this moment, pinker.

They move prettily, molding into shapes that make Iwaizumi’s brain cells rattle. “Iwa-chan?”

“What is it, Shittykawa?” he asks, but his hand moves to cup his best friend’s face.

Oikawa moves to kiss him, languid and with as much feeling as the one before. He nudges Iwaizumi’s nose with his own.

“Lay with me.”

It’s not Oikawa who says it. But it’s his eyes that widen as he takes Iwaizumi in; slopes of his face, cut of his jaw, words, and all.

“What’ll you do?” he teases, but eases into the spot anyway, right next to Iwaizumi on the bed, against the wall.

“You’re full of shit,” his best friend laughs affectionately, letting Oikawa lean against his arm and holding him close by the shoulders. Pressing his lips to Oikawa’s forehead, Iwaizumi says, “Just think we skipped a few steps there.”

 _“You’re_ full of shit,” Oikawa quips back, twinkling. _Twinkling?_ “The hell you mean, skipped steps.”

“It’s your lips’ fault,” Iwaizumi answers obviously, brushing his left thumb on Oikawa’s chin.

“‘Scuuuuse me?”

As if to answer, Iwaizumi pecks Oikawa’s lips, not pulling back fully after, but smiling.

Quickly, they return to kissing, to feeling each other; making out.

At some point, Oikawa manages to crawl on top of Iwaizumi, movements fervent and reverent at once.

“Iwa-chan,” he breathes when he pulls away, when he feels the bulge in his best friend’s shorts again, “Look at me.”

Iwaizumi smiles at him as he looks, open and uncharacteristically soft. It’s not the face of someone who’s been having a steamy moment with his best friend for the past half hour.

Instead he looks thoughtful, in the way that maybe in his head, there aren’t any thoughts at all.

(Truthfully, Iwaizumi is thinking back to a time when they were maybe ten, and Oikawa was on top of him just like this.

But not really, because then, they had been wrestling in the dirt, over volleyball and Iwaizumi’s rotten little net, and which activity to indulge in first.

Oikawa had won. In a way, he was always sort of winning.

With this whole thing going on though, and whatever Iwaizumi feels as his chest heaves, he thinks maybe all this time he had been winning, too.)

“How could I not,” he grins proudly.

Oikawa grinds his hips in revenge.

_“Ah—!”_

“That is so unfair!” he whines, smile too bright. “Unfair...”

And because Oikawa is a little shit, he keeps _fucking—_

 _“Oikawa,”_ Iwaizumi wheezes, almost completely lost in it. “You’re—I—”

“I told you,” Oikawa croons. “Get you off, remember?”

“Difficult to forget, really. _Hah—_ ”

“Adorable.”

“Oika— _ah_ —wa!”

The best friend in question giggles.

“I hate you.”

“Then maybe quit glancing at my lips?”

“You _asked_ me to look at you,” Iwaizumi grits. “Shittykawa.”

Oikawa smiles. He’s been smiling so much, Iwaizumi just has to—

“Oh.” There’s a sigh against his lips.

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi agrees. And then he looks back up at him. _“Oh.”_

“You look good from here,” Oikawa muses.

“So do you.”

“I always come out on top!”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “We’ll see about that.”

“Will we?”

“Well.” Oikawa feels absent patterns being traced onto his waist. “I’d hope so.” Iwaizumi looks up at him, grin wolfish. “I happen to like you a lot, even if you’re a piece of shit.”

“You like me _because_ I’m a piece of shit.”

“Do I?”

Oikawa shrugs. “Takes one to know one.” And then they smile, and he kisses Iwaizumi again, and again, and again.

Midnight dinners aren’t the best, nor are they recommended. Nor will Iwaizumi ever think to resort to such a thing on any night of normalcy; but if anyone was to ask him, it would be okay, if only you’d spend it with someone who isn’t half as irritating as you make him out to be, to the world at least, because you know it won’t take hold. No one will listen to you. He is just that beautiful.

“Dumbykawa,” Iwaizumi says to the beautiful boy (to him; to the world), “You want to heat up more rice? ‘S gone cold.”

Sleepily, Oikawa nods, and flashes Iwaizumi a toothy smile, cheeks filled with leftover curry and rice.

“You’re going to fall into the bowl,” Iwaizumi almost-tuts. He does not tut, not at Oikawa. He doesn’t need coddling. “And then you’re gonna break it, it’s gonna fall on the floor, and you’re gonna wake up the whole house. And because it’s _my house,_ you’re gonna wake up your house, too.”

“Such a loudmouth, Iwa-chan. And so early in the morning.”

“It’s not morning,” he places a bowl down on the table, “It’s midnight.”

Oikawa blinks. “We were asleep that long?”

“Yeah. Hey.” Iwaizumi leans over, chuckling at a curry smear at the edge of Oikawa’s lips. He dabs at it with a tissue, and looks back over to Oikawa, to find that along with the curry, some of Oikawa’s stubborn lip tint is gone. “Oh.”

“Hm?”

Iwaizumi shows him the tissue: orange and pink marks. “It came off.”

“Oh!” Oikawa licks his lips again. “Yeah, that seemed to do the trick. It’s probably the oil, right?”

“Probably.”

“That’s… one problem solved.”

In the kitchen light, Oikawa looks pleased, and contemplative. Iwaizumi proceeds to eat his own curry, because whatever Oikawa’s got to say, he’s going to say it, and Iwaizumi’s gonna listen.

After some few seconds, he speaks up. Light, breezy, and so Oikawa— “I gotta tell them still, though.”

“You could. On your own terms.” Iwaizumi swallows his rice. “This is you, not them, though.”

“Silly Iwa-chan,” but Oikawa smiles, and it betrays him, “Of course it’s _me.”_

“I’m glad you know.”

“Will you wear it with me if I asked? In solidarity?”

“Lip tint?” Iwaizumi asks, unfazed by Oikawa’s teasing lilt. Trying to lighten things; it’s only a testament, to the weight of _things._ “Sure,” he answers, serious.

“You’re so stoic.”

Iwaizumi shrugs. “Well it’s about you.”

“Hey, I’m _fun,”_ Oikawa retorts, pointing his fork. “And quit worrying! Oh my god.”

“Then quit dawdling,” Iwaizumi smirks, laughing, “and finish your meal. Or I’m gonna kick you out of here.”

“You wouldn’t.”

The sight of Iwaizumi squinting is always welcome to Oikawa. “I think I could.”

“Mean,” Oikawa hums, getting back to his food; pleased—and sleepy—again.

Iwaizumi hums, _I know,_ and leaves it at that.

“But hey,” Oikawa pipes up, because really, when has he ever kept peace awake? “I think if I manage it, then we go get lip tint—like a new one—I think I can get one that’s pinker.”

“You could. I like the one you have though. But it’s up to you.”

“You’re biased.”

Really, Iwaizumi can’t help the grin. He thinks of cherries, and falling asleep beside a lightly ravaged boy. He thinks of that first trip to the store, and standing there for almost an hour, swatch after swatch of a new shade.

He thinks, _they all look good on Oikawa._

He thinks, _but this one—_ , and fixes his best friend a playful look.

“Are they all cherry?”

Oikawa sags at the question, thoroughly fond and entirely defeated. “I hate you. Yes they are.”

“Then I’m biased,” Iwaizumi declares, still sporting a shit-eating grin.

Rolling his eyes, Oikawa lays down the new plan. “So I tell them, and it goes cool, and I go pick out a new shade of tint.”

“Okay, _woah,_ bit of a mistake there.”

“Huh?”

“Are you dumb? _I’ll go pick out a new shade?_ — Oikawa,” Iwaizumi pauses. “Asskawa.” He ignores Oikawa’s indignant face.

He inhales, and huffs a sigh. “ _Shittykawa—_ I’m going with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Runs away?????? There it is. If there are mistakes I'm sorry but also I'll take a while to get back to them because I am _shy_. Talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/seijohblue)! Or don't. Up to you.
> 
> **SCREAMS.**


End file.
